


oversalination

by sunspotted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean-Centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metaphors, One Shot, Post-Possession, Sea, Self-Esteem Issues, Solitude, Timid Love, Waves, post Michael possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspotted/pseuds/sunspotted
Summary: And Cas is there, thefool, leaning against the kitchen counter, or at least an imitation of it, dark oak, splintered, time-worn, much like Cas himself. When Dean looks at him, he doesn’t see Cas — he sees the slump of his shoulders, the valleys underneath those tired eyes, the angry red marks coiling around his neck – from love and violence alike – yet to be healed.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	oversalination

The screech of seagulls would have normally been a harsh, grating sound to wake up to; in this warm bed, in-between sleep and consciousness, Dean, however, welcomes it.

He thinks, with eyes still firmly kept shut, about the sea-bound birds. He thinks of them soaring high in the sky, fast through the wind, unaware of the troubles down here, on dry land. He thinks how he’d like to be them — unburdened and reachless and free.

The space next to him is empty.

Sheets and pillows neatly flattened as if no one’s been there the night before.

Dean understands. It’s what he’s got coming for the shit he’s pulled. He doesn’t deserve anyone staying there the morning after, caring for him, touching him like he’s precious and wanted, certainly not Cas, not  _ Cas _ , who should be the one farthest away from him.

Dean gets out of the bed, terribly slowly, muscles and bones cracking and lamenting — he’s still so unused to the weight of this reclaimed body.

And Cas is there,  _ the fool _ , leaning against the kitchen counter, or at least an imitation of it, dark oak, splintered, time-worn, much like Cas himself. When Dean looks at him, he doesn’t see Cas — he sees the slump of his shoulders, the valleys underneath those tired eyes, the angry red marks coiling around his neck – from love and violence alike – yet to be healed.

When Dean looks at him, he sees his own mistakes, own poison, staring back at him. Gloating.

_ This is what you do to people. _

_ This is what you do to him. _

He has to look elsewhere.

“Good morning,” is how Cas cuts off his chain of thought. “Coffee?”

Dean moves to the chairs and table meant to simulate a dining room with his eyes turned to the floorboards.  _ Don’t look at the man you broke. _

He sits down, more like falls down, atrociously exhausted, when he has walked a mere few meters. “Yeah,” is the only answer he manages to give, silent and weak.

Cas works quickly, no trembling hands, movements sharp, sure. In no time whatsoever, there’s a steaming cup in front of Dean and Cas is sitting down opposite him.

“Thanks.” Dean wraps his hands around the porcelain, pretends that the heat can chase off the chill rooted within him, the gnawing emptiness left after—

He takes too big of a gulp. It scorches his mouth and throat.

“Sam has been texting me all morning,” Cas starts, voice kept low, hushed, gentle _ – as if he deserves any gentleness – _ and places his phone on the table. “You should call him.”

Dean doesn’t want to, has been avoiding it all throughout yesterday. He knows what that call would entail — a lot of shouting, a lot of  _ what the hell were you thinking? _ , a lot of guilt and regret and pain.

A lot of him drowning.

And Dean would give anything to run away from that.

He merely nods, takes the phone, leaving his coffee there scarcely touched, and stands up, desperate to escape Cas’ too-blue gaze.

He heads to the terrace.

Outside, the grey waves are his siren — how easy it would be to let them embrace him and swallow him and carry him to the end of the world.

Dean dials his brother’s number.

It’s not even one full ring and then, “Cas?”

Dean closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Listens to the wind, how it roars in his ears. “Hey, Sammy.”

There’s a hitch in his little brother’s voice when he whispers the monosyllabic, “Dean,” and it’s enough for Dean to start spluttering the rehearsed  _ I’m sorry, please, forgive me— _

But, “ _Thank_ _god_.” And, “Are you okay?” And not even a second later, as if Dean is a too-fleeting thing, “Where are you?”

And Dean doesn’t have the answer, doesn’t want to have the answer, everyone should just  _ stay away from him, don’t come near, don’t look for me—  _ “I’m—We’re okay,” he resists the urge to turn around and search for Cas, make sure he’s unhurt and whole; instead, he rambles on, “I don’t know where we are. By the sea. I’m guessing Maine.” Just as well as it could be a hundred other places by the shore. Admittedly, Dean’s sense of direction has been... _ subdued _ , as of lately.

The next question surprises him because no one should be asking him that. “How are you?”

And Dean wants to laugh hysterically until his lungs are empty. “I’m...alive.”

Sam pauses. Dean hears the unsaid  _ that’s not what I was asking  _ all too clearly.

A sharp cough, and then an earthquake: “What about Michael?”

Dean opens his eyes. The seagulls don’t cease their symphony. It’s going to rain, the skies darkening each new minute. “He’s gone,” Dean tells the sea. “But he’s not dead. He’s gonna find another vessel. He’s gonna kill and destroy again.”  _ He’s gonna make me say yes once more. I’m not strong enough to resist him. _

_ He’s imprinted in me. _

_ He’s never gonna leave. _

_ He’s— _

“Hey, slow down,” Sam says with a smile – a very misplaced, undeserved smile – present in his voice. “Let’s take this one step at a time, alright? Michael’s gone. That’s a good thing, right?”

Dean has to hide his face into his palm — and press. “Yeah. I guess so.”

In the dark folds of his own skin, it all seems so easy.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

Dean doesn’t dare to answer.

“Okay, take as much time as you need. When you come back, I have some leads we could—”

“You don’t get it,” and he just  _ can’t _ hold it in, _no, he’s not gonna_. “You don’t fucking get it, Sam. I’m not coming back. He’s looking for me, and I just— You know he’s gonna make me— You  _ know _ it. And I can’t—I can’t put you in that danger again. Can’t. I’m going to stay away from you. It’s better that way. You won’t have to—”

“Dean, you’re my  _ brother _ , you think I’m just gonna—”

“ _ No _ , Sam, just–shut up. You  _ know _ that’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do. I just have the guts to say it. I don’t—”

“Please, just come back home and we can—”

“I don’t have a home! I don’t deserve one! Did you see the news? Did you see what I–I did? The people that—the cities? And I did all that and didn’t stop it and you’re— you should be fucking pissed. You shouldn’t want to see me. Just–no. Don’t call. Stay as far as you can, okay?”

He hungs up. Almost throws the phone to the waves.

He turns around, back to the cabin, and immediately wishes he hadn’t done that — Cas is standing there.  


Dean stands still.

He...just doesn’t have it in him to...bicker or avoid or deny anything Cas might’ve overheard. 

He looks to the ground. To the white planks beneath them.

“Dean.”

Goddammit, why does he have to say his name like that?

He wishes he didn’t.

Sometimes, he even wishes Castiel never met him. Never reached down to Hell and pulled him back up. Never gone through everything he chose to go through just because of him, because of one human, one tiny speck, nobody.

Never ever never ever.

“You do have a home.” The floorboards creak under Cas’ bare soles. “Please, look at me.”  


Dean does. It’s the single thing he cannot resist. He does he does he does and wishes he never had to look away.

“You do have people that care about you,” and Cas places his palm on his cheek. “People that love you.”  


Dean reaches for his other hand, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he’s able to _just hold it_ , not thinking about anything, focusing only on this, on the way their fingers interlace too perfectly like they’ve been yearning for it.

“Please, never forget that.”

And in the creases of Cas’ chapped lips, the seagulls don’t scream of flight and far away land.

They scream of home.


End file.
